


bury my heart next to yours

by bee1103



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Arthur is a rake, F/M, Gen, Mild Language, Queen/Council, Terribly Written Accents, UST, hints of romance, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 20:19:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5679424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bee1103/pseuds/bee1103
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wanted to stay awake, she did, if only because Macintosh had never looked so concerned in all the years she’d know him, but her eyelids felt like lead and her chest might as well have had a bear sitting on it and it was just so hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bury my heart next to yours

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this but I was feeling inspired (this ship does things to my heart) and so I just started writing. Please forgive the terribly written accents and any inconsistencies - I'm not Scottish and though it pains me to even try, I did my best. Also, this is un-beta'd so any mistakes are mine. 
> 
> And, the title is borrowed from the Mumford & Sons' song "Ghosts That We Knew."

“I dinnae like this.”

A cool breeze was blowing up from the bay, raising gooseflesh on her skin and dragging her hair across her face. Merida rolled her eyes, huffing as she pulled wayward curls from the wetness of her lips, _again_ , “You dinnae like anything."

Macintosh grumbled something low behind her. He’d been against this whole notion since the moment the dove had touched down on Dun Broch lands and, in truth, she couldn’t blame him. But it wasn’t often that a chance such as this – one of Arthur’s countrymen turning traitor for them – would present itself and thus, she was left with one choice. So here they were: standing on the wind-swept plains, awaiting the arrival of a man who might be their salvation against the Mad King of Camelot.

And curse it all, it was cold on his wretched hilltop.

“Mebbe he’s no comin’,” Dingwall suggested, shifting from foot to foot. MacGuffin mumbled something unintelligible that mostly sounded like agreement – or the fellow might have just been reciting some poetry, who bloody knew.

“Mebbe he’s been playin’ us fer fools and Arthur’s on his way with an army right this mo’,” was Macintosh’s unhelpful supplication.

“Mebbe you lot better shut yer traps ‘fore I knock all yer damned heads together,” Merida groused, pulling the edges of her cloak tighter around her shoulders – and _Gods all_ , this damn hair in her mouth.

Cut out her tongue before she’d admit it, but she was starting to worry that Macintosh and the others might be right. They’d been standing on this hill – the spot agreed upon by both parties – for near an hour and there’d been neither hide nor hair of anyone else. It was all making her nervous: what if Arthur _was_ just beyond that ridge, readying his army to attack them in surprise? Or worse, what if this had all been a ploy to draw her and the lords out so that Arthur might attack Dun Broch without challenge?

The thought made her stomach twist.

“MacGuffin,” she felt him move to stand beside her, patiently waiting. She kept her voice low and, ignoring the feel of Macintosh’s eyes boring into the back of her skull, she muttered, “Take a few men and head back to Dun Broch, jus’ in case.”

MacGuffin’s eyes widen a bit around the edges but he nodded, quick and certain, turning sharply from her side and disappearing beyond her vision. Better to be safe than sorry, especially with her mother and brothers left behind at home. She’d near lost them all at least once before, she wasn’t about to risk it again.

She chose to ignore Macintosh gloating behind her, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of even acknowledging he could be right about this whole plan. Needn’t inflate the lad’s head any more than it already was, after all.

Not that he wasn’t wise council – which might have been the worst part of their new-found kinship: sometimes she actually had to agree with him, curse it all, because sometimes (more often than she admitted) he was right.

And he certainly loved it when he was; never missed an opportunity for a childish _told ya so_ , that one.

But today, she was relieved to note as a single horseman appeared from the trees at the edge of the hill, was not going to be one of those days.

Young Lord Brennen was not but a lad, older than the triplets but still a few years shy of Merida, with the kind of hot temper that often bred rebellion. She was wary to admit it, but he reminded her a bit of herself in that way. He was tall and wiry and his crisp cut blond hair was straw-like and stiff as it brushed against his forehead in the wind, making his pinched face less attractive than it might have been someplace warm.

His clothes bore no insignia and he carried only a sword, sheathed at his hip. He was the most unassuming fellow that Merida had ever seen. Truthfully, she was a mite disappointed by the commonness of it all.

The boy dismounted and twisted something like a smile onto his face. His shoulders, once stiff from fear or cold, seemed to relax at the sight of the group, though they were hardly welcoming with their broadswords bared and bows at the ready.

“Lord Brennen,” Merida began, managing half a step forward before a very large and determinedly annoying hand clamped around her upper arm, halting her.

Macintosh strode past her, seeming twice his normal size as he approached the boy, who appeared to fold in on himself as Macintosh neared him. She couldn’t blame the lad: her clansman cut quite an imposing figure when he was stalking about like a wild cat. 

“You’ll be Lord Brennen, then?” Macintosh asked, eyeing the southerner. 

Brennen nodded, straightening proudly, “Lord Brennen of Camelot, page of Arthur, the Once and Future King -,” his face changed then, morphing back into a sheepish, childlike grin, “At least, I _was_. Now, I’m whomever your Highness will have, my lady.”

Merida grinned (and if she maybe thanked the Gods for being right about this, well, she wouldn’t be too smug around Macintosh). 

**&**

The hall was awash with clansmen, loud raucous laughter, and three redheaded boys entertaining the crowd with imitations of Maudie as she moved around the tables. Merida sat at the high table, her mother on her right and the former Lord Brennen on her left. They’d spent the meal discussing pleasantries – the weather, Merida’s coronation, Brennen’s family in Camelot – but they’d yet to get to anything of real substance, certainly nothing that would help the clans defeat Arthur on the battlefield.

But Merida hardly expected they’d get right to it. Even though patience was quite the opposite of her strongest feature, she’d known that this would take a bit of finesse – that was what her mother was for.

“Lord Brennen, I hope yer accommodations are t’ yer liking,” Elinor remarked, leaning over in the kind of graceful way that Merida could never replicate.

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Brennen said, nodding vigorously. He’d been thanking them nearly every moment since he’d arrived. Merida found it endearing – Macintosh appeared to find it annoying.

His scowl was more pronounced than usual and he’d hardly taken his eyes off the high table since they’d sat down. He was like a bloody watchdog. Usually when she noticed him staring it made her skin twitch and her stomach turn over in a strange way; tonight it just made her narrow her eyes at him. He was going to make Brennen uncomfortable and that was certainly not what they needed.

If he was going to help them defeat Arthur he would have to feel comfortable, trusted. He couldn’t believe that they saw him as an outsider or a threat.

Macintosh’s gaze caught hers for a moment – fierce and wary – before sliding back to glare at Brennen. Merida huffed, blowing a curl into the air.

“Something wrong, your Highness?” Brennen asked, face drawing down in concern. He looked rather mouse-like when he did that.

But she didn’t want to draw attention to Macintosh’s suspicious frown, so she quickly replied, “No, wee bit tired, I’ll admit. It’s been quite a long day.”

“Ah,” Brennen agreed, “for me as well, my Queen. Perhaps you should turn in early? I suspect the revelry will last many hours yet and, if you’ll permit me to walk you, I wonder if we might discuss some matters of our business together before we adjourn for the eve.”

 _Perfect_ , she smiled. It was surprising, she thought, that Brennen didn’t require more coddling and flattery before he was ready to talk but perhaps it was merely a testament to Arthur’s wickedness that the boy was brimming to reveal all manner of the Mad King’s sins.

“Aye, that sounds like a grand idea,” Merida agreed, pushing out of her chair and rising to her feet. Brennen stood as well, finishing off his ale in a swig that left him swaying just a touch.

“Sleep well, Lord Brennen,” Elinor wished, “I hope we’ll see you at breakfast in the morn.”

“I wouldn’t dream of missing it, my lady,” Brennen replied, giving the Queen Mother a short, quick bow. Everything about him was crisp and smooth, Merida noted, like he’d spent his whole life practicing each moment before it happened.

It seemed so strange against the chaos of Dun Broch and the loud, bright, colorful hall of clansmen. Not a man or woman here had ever lived their life as if it was some kind of performance.

Still, she knew she couldn’t judge him too fiercely; he was a young lad in a foreign, possibly dangerous land, at the mercy of folk who were rough-spun and frightening and who regularly found fistfights a form of entertainment. The poor boy was probably scared out of his wits. 

And it didn’t help, Merida realized, when the most terrifying of them all stepped right into your path so quick that you nearly collided with blue-painted spirals.

“Ack, Macintosh,” she snapped, reeling back a step.

“Turnin’ in, my Queen?” His hard eyes never left Brennen’s thin face.

“Aye,” Merida replied, hands coming up to rest on her hips. She could feel Brennen wilting under Macintosh’s gaze.

“I’ll accompany ya.”

Brennen’s eyebrows rose and Merida grimaced at Macintosh’s choice of words. She knew what he meant – likely so did Brennen – but the possessiveness in his voice was a wee bit suspect. He didn’t sound like he was speaking as a chief to his queen but as something entirely more precious.

Macintosh clearly didn’t care to amend the slip and Brennen’s face turned fearful again.

That simply wouldn’t do. There’d be no way Merida was going to get anything out of the lordling with Macintosh making the poor lad nearly wet himself every step.

“Lord Macintosh,” Merida stepped forward, doing her best imitation of her mother, “I wouldn’t think t’ take ye away from yer men so early in the eve. The Lord Brennen has offered t’ see me back t’ my rooms.”

Macintosh’s eyes finally flicked to her, “My Queen.” It wasn’t a question, but a warning. Merida stared at him, determined. She had to make him understand: Brennen wouldn’t talk with Macintosh there and she needed him to talk, _they_ needed him to talk.

Finally, after another long moment, Macintosh stepped back, head dipping in an approximation of a bow, “Course, yer Highness.”

Merida nodded once, proud of herself, and continued up the steps with Brennen at her side, choosing not to think on the worry she’d seen behind Macintosh’s gaze.

“You have a lovely home, your Highness,” Brennen commented as they walked through the dark stone hallways toward Merida’s chambers.

“Thank ye,” she said, fondly. It was nice to hear from someone who’d come from a place of such finery as Camelot. Though she’d only enjoyed the hospitality of its dungeons, Merida could understand the allure of the shiny, silken realm of Camelot to her own well-worn home.

Truthfully, she preferred the Highlands to the illusion of Arthur’s perfect kingdom.

“And your people have been so welcoming.”

Merida snorted, thinking of Macintosh.

Brennen chuckled, “No, truly. The way Arthur spoke of you, I admit, I feared I would be meeting savages.”

Merida gave him a pointed look, her voice soft, “And yet, ye came anyway.”

Brennen paused, his face growing pensive, “Indeed.”

Merida’s jaw tightened: had she made him question leaving Camelot? Perhaps he hadn’t thought about it, or perhaps his betrayal hadn’t quite settled in until now.

“Aye, but we’re glad yer here,” she tried for her most winning smile. A beat and then his brow smoothed and he cracked a small smile.

“Thank you, my lady,” Brennen said, resuming his walk.

They had nearly arrived at the door of Merida’s chambers when Brennen stopped again, tilting his head, “Remarkable. I can barely hear the sound of your kinsmen.”

“Aye,” Merida nodded, “these stones are thick. Good thing too or I might never get any sleep in this bloody place with all the noise that lot can make. Get a few drinks in ‘em and the singin’ll start.”

She took another step before she realized Brennen had not moved. She turned but the young man was looking at his boots.

Before she could ask if he was well, he spoke, quiet and just a bit sad, “Arthur hasn’t always been this way, you know.”

Merida was quite certain that the Mad King had always been a right bloody bastard in his own way but she could see the weight on Brennen’s shoulders and she held her tongue. Loyalty and kinship were things she knew well of – things that were held to great esteem in the Highlands – and she knew it wouldn’t be easy for her to betray her family, her country, and her king, if their positions were reversed.

Brennen continued, eyes flicking up to meet hers, “You don’t believe me. I can see it in your eyes. I understand why you might think that, but you haven’t seen the real him, I assure you. He is great.”

Merida frowned as Brennen took a step toward her. His voice was growing firm, confident, as he moved, “He could save us. Bring us peace, prosperity. Camelot is paradise and Arthur can bring it to us all.”

These were not the words of a man who was betraying his king. Merida took a hesitant step back.

“Arthur can give us Eden,” Brennen loomed closer, “do you see that? He is the prophesized king – once and future – but he cannot do it alone, you understand? He needs his people behind him, supporting him. He needs our strength, our _sacrifice_.”

Weak, fearful Lord Brennen was no more; the man who stood before her, who crowded her toward the shadowed corner of the passage, was fueled by fire and zeal and Merida was unarmed.

 _Curse it all_.

In one swift motion, Merida hauled her fist back and swung it directly into Brennen’s straight, thin nose. He hollered, clutching at his face as blood suddenly poured through clenched fingers. She darted past him, rushing toward the faint sounds of her people in the hall.

Suddenly, pain ripped through her skull; her head snapped back as Brennen caught a fistful of her hair and heaved her back into the shadows. Her chin smacked into the wall before she could catch herself – her teeth rang together and blood welled from a split on the inside of her cheek.

“You will not escape me, lady,” Brennen noted calmly, boxing her into the corner of the passage again.

“Aye, we’ll see about tha’,” Merida countered. She dropped her shoulder and threw herself into Brennen’s chest, knocking him back a step. He twisted, pulling her along with him, swinging her into the floor.

Her chest burned as she hit the ground but she paid it only a moment’s thought, scrambling to her feet. The move had put her on Brennen’s other side, closer to the hall now, her assailant behind her. She ran.

Tried to run. He caught her up again, clamping a hand down on her shoulder and tossing her roughly at the wall again, pinning her there. He was stronger than he’d pretended to be.

Her chest hurt, her breath wheezed as it escaped torn, bloody lips. She couldn’t have cried out now if she’d wanted to. Brennen bared blood-stained teeth and pulled a smooth, flat blade from the folds of his shirt.

“Arthur sends his regards, good Queen.”

The knife felt like frozen flame as it cut through her side. For a brief instant there was no pain – then it grew, sharp and piercing, forcing her to the ground, her back still pressed against the wall, one hand holding the hilt still in her gut. She’d thought she’d not been able to shout out – she’d been wrong.

Though her voice was broken and ragged, it echoed along the walls. Yet it was no match for the sounds of merriment in the hall. They might have been leagues away for all they could for her now.

She’d have to get herself out of this one.

Brennen was still standing over her. Perhaps he was admiring his work, perhaps he needed to be sure he’d finished the job – either way, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Her eyelids drifted shut and she murmured just loud enough that he could catch a word or two.

He frowned, “what was that?”

She spoke a bit louder, could feel Brennen draw near to her, crouching down to hear.

“What did you say?”

Her eyes shot open, “Arthur sent the wrong man.” Brennen hesitated, confused, and it was all Merida needed: she ripped the knife out of her side, ignoring the fire, and jammed the blood-drenched blade into the side of Brennen’s throat.

His eyes widened as he grappled for the hilt, choking as blood poured out of his mouth. Coughing and wheezing, fingers clutching to no avail, but it was too late; there was too much blood. With a great shudder, Brennen collapsed backwards, gurgling for a moment more before he became utterly, painfully silent.

It was over.

Merida released a single, shuddering breath, feeling the burn of her wound. Exhaustion overtook her then, adrenaline leaving her in a great rush, and suddenly sitting up was too much. Her body slid sideways against the wall, crumpling in a heap on the floor.

Warm, stickiness was oozing through the fingers still pressed against her abdomen. She’d done more damage when she’d pulled out the knife, she knew; she could feel the ragged edges of skin beneath her hand.

And _Gods all_ , there was so much blood. It was starting to pool beneath her now, her dress was soaking with it. She’d been on battlefields, she knew what this much blood meant.

Her eyes drifted shut again. Sleep sounded like a brilliant idea, actually. She felt like she could sleep for days. When was the last time she’d had a real good rest anyway? Something deep inside her brain reminded her that sleep was bad – that if she went to sleep she’d probably not wake up – but the thought was foggy, not fully there.

Just a few minutes then, just to get her strength back.

Except, curse it, someone was already calling her name. She felt great hands lift her off the floor, turn her over, brush at her face, her hair, press into her side so hard it _hurt_ and the pain made her eyes flutter open.

Macintosh’s face filled her vision. He was all lines of worry and a fear in his eyes that ran so deep she had to swallow a sigh of surprise. He was speaking but the sound in the world had been turned off and she couldn’t make it out. He was frantic though and his mouth kept forming the same shapes over and over again, as if he really needed her to hear it, to understand. So she tried, forced herself to push back the thump of her heartbeat, to catch his voice.

“Stay awake, Merida, stay with me,” she heard. Then he shouted, “Dingwall! MacGuffin! Fetch a healer!”

There was more noise and Merida was dimly aware that there were others in the hallway as well. She wanted to say something, to them, to him, but naught but a mumble escaped her broken lips.

Macintosh curved a hand around her cheek, “Shh, lass. Dinnae try t’ talk.”

He swiped his thumb under her eye and wiped away a tear. She hadn’t even realized she was crying. He might be crying too; she couldn’t quite tell, but his eyes were shiny and still so very afraid. She’d never seen him look like this, wanted desperately to smooth out the lines of his face because, truthfully, it didn’t hurt anymore.

Her hand reached up, weakly, fingertips trailing against his jawbone. She left a streak of blood against his skin. Her blood.

“Merida,” he whispered, like he was begging, then hollered again, “Where’s the bloody healer?!”

She wanted to stay awake, she did, if only because Macintosh had never looked so concerned in all the years she’d know him, but her eyelids felt like lead and her chest might as well have had a bear sitting on it and it was _just so hard_. His face had grown blurry around the edges and his voice was garbled again, words and sounds fading in and out of understanding.

He was shouting at her, she knew, but it was lost in a haze of blue lines and flint eyes and _gràidheag_ …

And then it was too late; she was gone.

**&**

She had always imagined dying on a battlefield somewhere: a true Highland Queen with her clansmen at her side, defending her homeland from invaders or monsters. Bleeding out on the floor of Castle Dun Broch from a stab wounded inflicted by one of the Mad King’s faithful zealots was not how she’d wanted it to happen.

Ah, well, beggars and choosers and all that. Still though, she’d expected death to be a bit _more_. Wasn’t she meant to meet her ancestors in a land of eternal youth and beauty?

And shouldn’t she be free of pain? But, _Gods all_ , everything seemed to hurt, seemed to ache. She took a deep, steadying breath, and the scent of hearth wood and smoke swept into her senses.

Maybe not dead after all then.

Someone, unseen, shifted, stifling a sigh or perhaps a yawn. And not alone either.

With immense effort, Merida cracked her eyelids open. At first, the light was harsh, blinding, but she blinked for a moment or two and slowly it all came back into focus. She was in her own chambers, wrapped in blankets; sunlight was streaming in from the windows which meant she must have been out the entire night. Gods, her mother was probably out of her mind with worry.

“Merida?” It was her mother’s voice, soft and sweet. Merida turned her head, achingly, toward the sound. Elinor was sitting in a chair pulled close to the bedside and she looked as if she hadn’t rested comfortably in days. The sight made her insides twist, guilty.

“Sorry, mum,” she croaked.

Elinor’s smile was equal parts joyous and worried, “Oh, my child. Yer awake, thank the Gods.”

Merida shifted, trying to sit up, hissing as pain sparked up her side.

“Easy, dear one. Stay still, ye’ll hurt yerself again,” Elinor commanded, placing a gentle hand on Merida’s shoulder, guiding her back against the pillows. “How d’ feel?”

“Bit like I ben stabbed by some bloody coward’s errand boy,” Merida replied, rather cheekily for having such a large gash in her gut.

Elinor smiled softly again, “Ye frightened us for a while there.”

“Aye, and has Macintosh declared himself king in the few hours I’ve ben out or was he goin’ t’ wait until after the funeral?” Merida joked with a tight smile. When in doubt, make a jest – that was her way; ease the shame in her heart for having given her mother cause to worry.

Elinor’s brow turned down disapprovingly, “Dinnae tease, Merida, ‘specially Macintosh.”

Something about her mother’s tone was odd and Merida frowned at the suggestion behind it. But then Macintosh’s terrified eyes swam back into her memory and she pushed the thought away. It was too much, so she deflected again, “Ack, mum, it was only a night, ye needn’t have been so panicked.”

Elinor frowned again, this time leaning forward to brush matted curls from Merida’s forehead, “Merida, ye’ve been out fer four days.”

“What?”

“We thought we’d lost ye on the second – ye stopped breathin’ for a mo’ – but the healer said once ye made it past the third night ye were likely on the mend,” Elinor swept her head over the top of Merida’s head again, gently like she had when Merida was a child, hiding from thunderstorms.

 _Four days_. Gods. She thought of her brothers, her mother, Maudie and the others who had known her for her entire life, all sitting around by her deathbed, praying for her to wake. And _Macintosh_. He must of – well, she could only imagine what he might have done.

“What happened?” she sounded small, scared.

“Macintosh was worried – would no sit still after ye’d gone. I told ‘im, if it’d make ‘im feel better, he might as well follow ye – thank Gods he did – found ye in the passage nex’ t’ Brennen’s body. I think ye may have scared the poor man near t’ death, lyin’ in a pool a’ yer own blood, pale as death,” Elinor explained, running her hand along Merida’s arm. It seemed that, now that her daughter was awake, Elinor didn’t want to let her go at all.

“I had t’ send ‘im away t’ finally get some sleep. He’d no closed his eyes a wink since he carried ye up here,” Elinor added softly, a small, significant smile on her face.

Merida swallowed roughly, letting her mother’s words sink in. Macintosh had been the one to find her – the bloody bastard had ignored her and followed her upstairs anyway. Gods, couldn’t he ever just _listen_? Did he always have to do what he damn-well pleased? And then, to carry her back here, like some babe – he probably thought less of her now than he ever had.

A soft knock at the door drew the attention of both women, as it cracked open Maudie poked her head into the room.

“My lady, would you be needin’ any -,” Maudie’s eyes widened as she realized Merida was no longer unconscious. She pushed excitedly into the room, “Oh, Queen Merida, yer awake – praise the Gods! We were all so worried – I, meself, haven’t ben able t’ sit still since it all happened! And t’ think, that boy – Gods, I made sure t’ prepare the best rooms fer – and we used the good ale! And all for a rogue such as that – Gods, I feel like I could jus -”

“Maudie, will ye go tell the boys? I’m sure they’ll be wantin’ t’ see their sister,” Elinor suggested, gentle but firm in that way she had that made everyone bend to her will.

“Of course, Lady Elinor,” Maudie reached to clasp Merida’s hand quickly before turning and hurrying out of the room to find Hamish, Harris and Hubert. Knowing them, they’d likely be in the kitchens.

“Best ready yerself,” Elinor warned, “She’ll tell half the castle before she finds the boys.”

She was right, of course, and not five minutes later a flood of people had come pouring into Merida’s bed chambers with well-wishes for the Queen’s health. It was touching, truly, how worried they’d all been for her and, not for the first time, Merida felt awash with guilt about the pain she’d caused all of them. If only she hadn’t been so desperate to find Arthur’s weakness...

Suffering was the one thing she’d hoped to protect them from.

Her brothers soon appeared, bringing her tarts and pies they’d swiped, hugging her and petting her hair in their odd little affectionate ways. Then Maudie and some of the other servants came back. Dingwall and MacGuffin showed up, both carrying small bouquets of yellow meadow flowers for her. Dingwall got a bit misty in the eye and hurried out before long and MacGuffin had mumbled some gibberish that she mostly figured meant he was glad she was okay.

But it wasn’t until the room was crowded and loud that Macintosh slipped in, staying toward the back, blending in with the others. He didn’t come up and wish her well or tell her of how he’d prayed for her to recover or even jest about how she’d looked like a stuck pig and how come she could never seem to keep herself out of trouble?

He barely seemed able to look at her.

“Alright, I think it’s time fer the Queen t’ get some rest,” Elinor finally announced, shooing the guests from the room. Macintosh, however, made no move to go and Elinor, shooting a quick glance back at Merida, made no move to send him away. “I think I’ll stretch m’ legs a bit,” she said as she disappeared behind a closed door.

Then there was silence and Macintosh.

He stood, still as stone, near the far wall, staring at a spot on floor by her bed. Gods, it was making her uncomfortable. She didn’t like the quiet: with all the noise she’d been brought up with, the quiet always felt harsh. She swallowed, readying herself to say something, to thank him, to admit he’d been right about Brennen, anything, but instead –

“Don’ you ever do tha again, ye hear?” the harshness in his voice made her blink in surprise. After all, it wasn’t as if she’d asked to be stabbed by a traitor.

He took a determined step toward her bedside and now he was looking at her. Gone was the playful challenge she sometimes found in his gaze when they were arguing or the skepticism and incredulity he adopted when he was wary of one of her decisions.

All she saw was anger now: “Yer a damned fool. And ye nearly lost us everythin’ – Gods, Merida, don’ you ever think of anythin’? Is there nothin’ in that damned head a’ yers?”

She frowned, temper rising, but he wasn’t finished: “I told ye that bastard was no good but did ye listen? Do ye ever? ‘Course no, ye couldn’t possibly listen t’ anyone else. Well, tell me, if yer no goin’ t’ listen t’ my council then what’s the use in keepin’ me around, eh?!”

“Well, it’s no fer yer sweet words!” Merida snapped.

Macintosh paused, staring owlishly at her. It was as if he’d forgotten that she was no longer unconscious, that she could yell at him again and that she certainly would. His jaw clenched tightly and he was close enough now that he could reach out and touch her hand. His fingertips were cold, like he’d spent hours out in the hills – probably hacking away at a training dummy instead of sleeping, the oaf. But the warmth of her skin seemed to ease something in his eyes, his anger fading just as quickly as it had sparked.

She had terrified him.

What that meant, she had no idea, but it was something, clearly it was _something_.

“I dinnae mean t’ scare ye,” she said softly, carefully. Macintosh was a bit like a feral dog sometimes, rabid but skittish too, same as a she, and it never did either of them any favors having folks close in on them.

Macintosh’s mouth quirked up at the corner, though his gaze was fixed on her hand, fingers still tracing patterns against her skin. “Aye,” he said, “reckon it won’ be the last time.”

“Thank ye,” she breathed, “fer saving my life.”

His eyes met hers and she found that the cold gray she’d come to know had grown hot, molten and liquid. “Always,” he replied, just as softly.

She could get lost in those eyes if she wasn’t careful.

She blinked, suddenly worn out: the excitement of her kinfolk had drained what little energy she’d had left and she could feel sleep threatening.

“I should let ye rest, my Queen,” he remarked, starting to pull away.

“Wait.” She grabbed for his hand, clutching at his fingers before they were out of reach, “D’ ye think ye might stay a bit?”

She felt foolish asking it but, curse it all, she was injured and selfish and all she was certain of at the moment was that if Macintosh walked out of her chamber right now they would go back to the way things were and she wasn’t sure if that was what she wanted.

But she knew she didn’t want him to leave.

He hesitated – perhaps weighing her request, perhaps wondering how he’d managed to pledge himself to such a weak and wilting queen – then nodded silently. He slid into the empty chair her mother had left behind, watching Merida with a slight smile.

She shifted a bit, snuggling into the blankets and letting her eyes drift shut. “We ought t’ talk about -,” _yawn_ , “-what’s t’ be done -,” _yawn_ , “-about Arthur,” she muttered, sleepily.

Macintosh made a hum of agreement.

“But,” she continued on another yawn, “mebbe we’ll jus’ save tha’ fer tomorrow.”

“Aye,” came Macintosh’s voice, low and amused, as she drifted off on a dream.

“As ye wish, my Queen.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> According to the several Scottish Gaelic Dictionaries I referenced, "gràidheag" means sweetheart, if anyone was wondering. And if it's used incorrectly, forgive me again. And yes, the last line is a shameless reference to The Princess Bride - it had to be done. I hope you enjoyed this first foray into this ship and ultimately into writing for this fandom which I have done but never posted! Thank you for taking the time to read it!


End file.
